


Wolfshead

by dakeyras



Series: Naruto Fantasy Week 2020 Oneshots [5]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Backstory, Bandits & Outlaws, Gen, Kirigakure | Hidden Mist Village, Naruto Fantasy Week, Worldbuilding, Zabuza works through his issues by killing them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:53:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25087957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dakeyras/pseuds/dakeyras
Summary: This would be a story about horrific abuse and trauma inflicted on a poor child, if that child weren't Zabuza Momochi. Instead, it's a story about horrific abuse and trauma inflicted *by* a child.
Series: Naruto Fantasy Week 2020 Oneshots [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1809535
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10
Collections: Naruto Fantasy Week 2020





	Wolfshead

**Author's Note:**

> For Naruto Fantasy Week 2020: Prompt is 'Thieves & Outlaws'
> 
> Each submission I'm making has a different setting, style and genre.

I was seven years old when I first understood the City of Mist.

Living on the streets as a child is rough. You feel like life can’t get any worse. Then you learn that you have shark’s teeth. You live in a country that doesn’t approve of ‘impurities’ in the blood, and you realise that even the other street urchins have it better than you. Not by much, though; they’re still starving and homeless, they just get fewer beatings.

But to understand Mist, you must understand this: I saw one of the few shopkeepers that were nice to me kick a wounded man to death. He was branded with a stylised wolf on his cheek – the dead man, not the shopkeeper. I later had it explained to me that the dead man was an outlaw, and so anyone helping him would also be considered an outlaw. The shopkeeper had no choice.

You always have a choice. You can choose to look into a bruised and bloody face, see a hand reaching out, asking for mercy, and then stomp on that hand until the fingers don’t work any more. Or you can refuse, and bear the consequences.

At the time, I decided the shopkeeper was right. The outlaw was below even me, and so deserved even worse punishment.

When I was ten, I started carrying a knife everywhere with me. It was small and desperately sharp, and I used it to cut purses. Once, I cut a little too deep when robbing a drunk. He stumbled and fell, and after fifteen of the longest minutes of my life he stopped moving.

His purse was empty.

I lost my fear of death after that. Or rather, I lost my fear of killing. I didn’t, and still don’t, want to die. So passed the next four years of my life.

Once a year, the Knights take on apprentices. Sorry – I’ll give more details. The Order of Ocean Knights has been around since the founding of the city. They’re the defenders of the City of Mist. The Council of Seven leads them. Each knight chooses their new apprentice from a pool of squires, but there’s a rule: if you kill a squire, one of the knights  _ must _ take you as an apprentice.

A member of the Council was going to be taking an apprentice, and the whole city was abuzz with rumours about who he would pick. It was a promise of huge power – the apprentice would inherit one of the Seven Founders’ Swords, and a place on the Council itself. I had nothing, and in a sense I  _ was _ nothing, but I wanted that apprenticeship, and I would do anything for it.

They don’t guard the sleeping quarters of the squires properly. The squires themselves are meant to defend it, to teach good habits, but the water cisterns that bring fresh drinking water aren’t protected at all. You have to find your way through two hundred feet of icy water, going down pipes that are slightly narrower than your shoulders, holding your breath the entire way, but it’s not impossible. You can reach the squires’ rooms without being spotted, or back then you could. It’s probably been fixed.

Most squires sleep in four-man rooms, although a few rooms are always under-strength. They’re soundproof, or near enough anyway. Any screams or shouts that might be heard nearby tend to fade into the background anyway – the City of Mist has an exciting nightlife.

I wasn’t sure whether killing a single squire would guarantee me the  _ right _ master. I also didn’t know at the time that there were several years’ worth of squires in the same building, and only the final year would be competing with me for the spot I wanted. In hindsight, I could have been merciful – at least a little bit.

Actually, that would have been clever as well as merciful, because my knife got blunt pretty fast and I had to scrounge up whatever weapons were lying around. Most swords and daggers can’t kill more than one or two people before they need sharpening.

Anyway, it turns out that if you’re the only candidate available, you get the most senior master. That isn’t affected by whether you’ve killed anyone (or a hundred and seventeen anyones, for that matter).

I settled into my new routine. It was a novel experience, especially the regular meals, and I grew to like it very much. The biggest downside was the endless training.

You might not be surprised to hear about this next part. You’ve probably got a pretty good handle on where things are going from here.

I didn’t want to kill my master, at least to start with. He was a cruel bastard, rotten to the core, but he was always fair to me. I learned a lot and he never held my low beginnings against me. From time to time, he would order me to kill someone – I never found out if it was for amusement, training or business. It didn’t bother me, though.

There’s a rule that the number of Knights always need to stay the same. It’s a case of ‘dead man’s shoes’, quite literally. When a Knight dies, their apprentice is promoted. You can see how that leads to weak Knights dying early, and so their apprentices are untrained when they take their places, and the cycle continues. You can also see how apprentices with skilled masters won’t replace them until bad luck or old age find a way in.

My master was very skilled, and I knew the prick wasn’t going to be dying of anything anytime soon. So I learned from him, and I got to know him, and I… gave him a helping hand.

I waited until he was drunk, and then I wrestled his sword off him and cut his head off with it. That doesn’t live up to the legends, does it? I heard one skald tell a tale where we fought for three days and three nights. In fact it was over after about a minute of sweaty grunting, and I swung the sword exactly once.

The sword is of course famous in its own right. The blade that took the king’s head, once upon a time. Some say that it is still stained with the blood of every life it ever spilled out onto the ground. Some say that it cannot be parried, and can cut through lesser swords with ease. It’s the largest and heaviest of the swords of the Council.

That last part proved to be a bit embarrassing for me. It took me a few months to be able to swing it right, and the entire time I had to pretend my master was still alive. I only got away with it because he was well-known for being a recluse. I sent replies to letters and occasionally showed up in person as his apprentice, bringing a verbal message. It might sound confusing – surely once he died, I became a member of the Council of Seven – but the other six  _ really _ hated me. I’d killed off over a hundred of their squires, after all. Unless I was both legally and physically untouchable, I would be dead within an hour of them finding my master’s corpse.

Anyway, it was a bit of a close thing, but I got away with it in the end, and took my master’s seat as an Ocean Knight and a member of the Council of Seven. The Council itself was dull, and I didn’t take an apprentice because I didn’t trust any of the sneaky fuckers. Cutting your way to the top of an organisation tends to inspire people to follow your example.

You might be wondering what went wrong next, and if so, I just want to correct something. So far everything had gone  _ right _ for me. I went from being a penniless homeless orphan to one of the strongest swordsmen in the City of Mist, feared and famed across the land. Few dared oppose me and none dared fight me.

The real power in the City comes from the Knights. There’s so many of them, and they’re individually so strong; they wield collective power that can and has toppled thrones. The king knows this, of course, and so he hatches a plan. Split the Knights into factions, use spies and assassins and bribes and blackmail and subterfuge, and they’ll fight each other instead of attacking him. Things go well for a few decades, but then the Council finds out.

I don’t know what I expected to happen. There was anger, sure, and plenty of empty threats. It was followed by three months of meetings, backroom deals, and the stench of politicking. Eventually I just had enough. I went to kill the king, I failed, and so I was declared an outlaw.

How far the mighty fall, and how fast.

I fled in the night, taking those men and women that I thought would be useful. I also grabbed an orphan who showed some minor promise. Let the record show that I am an arrogant man. While I cared not at all about the City of Mist, I would cut my way to the gates of Hell to take revenge on the king. He had meddled in the affairs of the Council, which were also  _ my _ affairs.

You might think I am possessive, and you would be entirely right. But you can probably guess where the story ends, as all stories about hubris do. The king still sits on his throne. Possessing this tale will get you killed in the City of Mist. It counts as aiding and abetting an outlaw, you see.

And me? My followers deserted me or died, one after the other, except for the orphan I picked up. I’ve wandered far away from the king, the Council and the City of Mist, and I won’t return. The Wolfshead is the lowest rung on the ladder, but it’s also the only one that can stop climbing and leave.

You might as well consider me, for the first time, truly free.

Oh, and I kept the sword.


End file.
